CHAPTER 4

Helen didn’t bother trimming calories after seeing Debbi’s stylized starvation. She ate her chicken sandwich with relish—plus mayonnaise, a fat bun and a pile of potato chips.

Thumbs, Helen’s six-toed cat, sat at her feet, staring hopefully at her dinner.

Phil had already put his plate in the dishwasher. “The meeting with our second client, Gus Behr, is at seven tonight,” he said. “We have to leave in ten minutes.”

Thumbs sprang up on the table and streaked toward the last bite of Helen’s sandwich. She caught the cat and dropped him on the floor. “You know better, Thumbs.”

The cat slunk off to his food bowl and crunched resentfully on his dry dinner. Helen finished her sandwich and dashed into the bedroom to freshen up.

“Don’t do anything fancy,” Phil said. “We’re going to a car repair shop.”

At six fifty-five, Phil’s Jeep bumped across the railroad tracks that ran along Dixie Highway. Boy Toys Restoration and Car Repair was straight ahead, a showy hot pink and turquoise building surrounded by a gleaming metal fence.

“Look at that,” Phil said, and gave a whistle. “That is purely beautiful.”

Helen saw a stocky man with grease up to his elbows bent under the hood of a needle-nosed car.

“He is?” Helen said.

“Not the guy, the car,” Phil said. “That looks like a 1965 Jaguar XKE, the most beautiful sports car ever made. I’m in love.”

“Should I be jealous?” Helen asked.

“No,” Phil said. “I can’t afford her. She costs more than a hundred grand.”

“Thanks a lot,” Helen said. “Glad I’m cheap.”

Phil swung his beat-up black Jeep next to the sleek red Jaguar, jumped out and said, “Hi. Gorgeous Jag.”

Gus Behr wiped his hands on an oily rag. “Isn’t she? You’re looking at two years of restoration. Too bad she’s going to sit in some doctor’s garage.”

Phil peeked in the driver’s window. He looked at the black leather interior and wood steering wheel like a starving man in a bakery shop.

“My husband, Phil, was struck speechless by that car,” Helen said. “I’m Helen Hawthorne. We’re the co-owners of Coronado Investigations.”

“I figured,” Gus said. “Let’s go in my office and cool off.” Sweat cascaded down his forehead.

Helen and Phil followed Gus through an open garage that smelled pleasantly of engine oil. The gray painted floor was clean and shiny. Tools were neatly hung on a pegboard or stowed in metal cabinets. Inside Gus’s office, it was thirty degrees cooler—and frozen in the 1980s. Gus sighed with relief as he sat behind a black lacquer desk piled with papers and parts catalogues. A framed autographed photo of Don Johnson as Sonny Crockett took up one corner. The actor stood next to the black Ferrari from Miami Vice.

Gus opened a water bottle for himself and drank thirstily. Helen and Phil said no thanks and opened their notebooks.

“We can talk prices and stuff when I finish,” Gus said. “If I don’t tell my story now, I’ll lose my nerve. This goes way back to the eighties, when my brother Mark died. I’m fifty-seven now. Mark was two years younger. In ’eighty-six, Mark had just turned thirty. He died of a gunshot wound to the head. The police said it was suicide, but I know he was murdered.”

He paused for another drink. Helen said nothing. Phil nodded at him to continue.

“My family is from Fostoria, Ohio,” Gus said.

“Where they made the glassware?” Phil asked.

“Right. Fostoria is about ninety miles from Columbus,” Gus said. “Lot of Germans, Irish, Italians and Belgians did the grunt work at the glass plants. The powers that be looked down on us because we were blue-collar Catholic. My dad, Frederick, saved up enough to start a gas station. He pumped gas and fixed cars. My mom, Roseanna, took care of us three kids. The Three Behrs, they called us. We were all redheads. You see what’s left of mine.” He ran a greasestained hand through his rusty fringe.

“Mom named my sister Bernadette for the humble French saint who saw Jesus’s mother. Bernie hated the name. She was no saint and she sure wasn’t humble. She and Mom had some complicated mother-daughter thing and fought a lot. Bernie didn’t like leaving her friends in high school. My brother Mark and I got along fine with Dad. We loved cars.

“Back in Ohio, we were the perfect Catholic family, right down to the concrete Virgin in the yard. When Dad got older, he got sick of working in the Midwest winters. He said the cold would kill him. He moved the family to Fort Lauderdale in 1980 and opened Fred’s Garage. Mark and I worked at the garage, lived in a bachelor dive and had a great time.

“Mom acted like she never left Ohio. She had her Fort Lauderdale volunteer groups and went to church every Sunday. Even had the same damn concrete Virgin in the yard. Mom insisted we kids show up for Sunday dinner. Bernie gave her a hard time, but Mark and I never missed a meal.”

Gus patted his gut as if it were a prize pumpkin.

“Dad was a good mechanic, but he struggled to stay in business. Winter didn’t kill him. The Florida heat got him. He died of a heart attack in July ’eighty-five.

“Dad’s death was a shock. Mom wanted to sell the garage, but Mark and I talked her into letting us run it. It was Mark’s idea to change the name and redo this building. He made the business upscale. We were no longer a neighborhood garage.

“When Dad died, our family lost its anchor. Mom quit cooking Sunday dinners. Bernie started coming home late, then staying out all night. Mom didn’t say anything. I think she was tired of fighting. Bernie was seventeen, a real looker, with long red hair. Guys would stop and stare, she was that beautiful.

“I should have kept an eye on my little sister, but I was working ten-hour days at the garage. I’d also met my wife, Jeannie, and was wrapped up in her. I was doing the work of two men. Mark showed up when he felt like it, which wasn’t often.

“Mark and Bernie started running with a wild crowd. Bernie was dating a rich Turk named Ahmet Yavuz. Ahmet was Hollywood handsome. Mom didn’t like my sister hanging around with him. The more she objected, the more Bernie said she loved him.”

“What did you think of this Ahmet?” Phil asked.

“He was bad news. Ahmet had an import-export business, but I thought it was a cover for drug dealing.

“Mom wanted Bernie to date a nice Catholic boy. She insisted I lay down the law. I told Bernie if she kept going out with Ahmet, she couldn’t live at home with Mom. Bernie said fine and moved in with the drug dealer.”

Phil and Helen said nothing, but Gus read their disapproval. “I know, I know. That’s not a smart way to treat a headstrong young woman. I was head of the family and I had a lot of worries. Mark was throwing money around. He tried to help, even if he didn’t work much. He sent customers with flashy cars—Lamborghinis, Ferraris, Bentleys. The customers paid cash and never questioned the bills. I suspected they had drug money, but I didn’t look too close. Cash was rolling in.

“Worse, Mark’s mental problems surfaced again. In his early twenties, he’d been diagnosed as manic-depressive. I guess they use ‘bipolar’ now. Mark was fine if he took his medication. When he ran with the party crowd, he stopped. Six months after Dad died, I found Mark walking naked down Dixie Highway, babbling that he could save the world. I hauled him off to a mental hospital. Later, I learned Mark used coke to make the voices in his head go away.”

“What happened after you committed Mark?” Phil asked.

“Mom wasn’t happy with me. I tried to explain my brother needed professional help—a naked man wandering the streets could get shot.

“After Mark got out of the hospital, he worked even less, but he sent me new business. He and Bernie partied harder than ever. One night I came home from work and found Bernie had moved in with us. She said she’d left Ahmet, but she wasn’t going home to Mom. She didn’t want to hear Mom say, ‘I told you so.’ ”

Gus took another gulp of water. “I—He—This next part is hard to say.” He took a deep breath. “That was a Monday. A week later, Mark was shot. My sister said the accident happened in Plantation.”

“The Lauderdale suburb?” Phil asked.

“Yeah,” Gus said. “I was here at the shop when Bernie called. She said Mark was in Broward Hospital in bad shape. I ran over there. He was in a coma.

“I got the rest of the story in bits and pieces. Ahmet told the police that Mark came to his import-export business talking crazy and waving a gun. He said my brother shot himself in the head before Ahmet could take the gun away.

“I know Ahmet lied. He hated my brother. Ahmet wouldn’t lift a finger to help Mark. My brother never came out of the coma. He died in the hospital two days later. The police said Mark committed suicide.”

“I’m sorry,” Helen said.

Mark’s death was twenty-five years ago, but his brother’s grief still seemed raw.

“I know Mark didn’t kill himself,” Gus said. “Our family is Catholic. Suicide is a mortal sin.”

“But Mark quit going to church,” Phil said. “He used coke. Your sister lived with a drug dealer.”

“Everyone was wild back then,” Gus said. “Most of Mark’s friends straightened out. Mark and Bernie had good values. They lost their way for a while.

“I know what really happened, but I can’t prove it: The police hushed up Mark’s murder. I need you to get the evidence.”

Gus’s heavy shoulders seemed bowed by the weight of his story.

“I don’t know if we can help, Gus,” Phil said. “The mid-eighties were the heyday of the cocaine cowboys. There were definitely corrupt cops. But it will be hard to prove Mark was murdered. Why investigate your brother’s death now?”

“I make a good living restoring classic cars,” Gus said. “I got my start thanks to Mark. My son, Gus Junior, is in business with me. I’m a grandfather.”

Gus pointed proudly to photos of a red-haired boy ranging from newborn to about age four. In the latest, his curls were covered by a fire hat. “That’s Gustav Behr the Third. He likes cars as much as his dad.”

“What a cutie,” Helen said. “He inherited your red hair.”

“I’m worried he inherited something worse,” Gus said. “My wife’s grandfather killed himself. Jeannie’s mom hung herself after her fourth kid. I don’t want my grandson thinking we’re a family of suicides. I want you to prove Mark’s death was murder.”

“How does Bernie feel about this investigation?” Phil asked.

“My sister turned into Mrs. Solid Citizen. She’s completely changed. Bernie was real depressed after Mark died. She kept saying it was ‘all her fault.’ I guess she felt guilty she’d taken up with a drug dealer. She had her own drug problem. Bernie went into rehab and spent six months in a mental institution.

“Once she recovered, Bernie went to med tech school and became a phlebotomist—she draws blood at a hospital. She married Kevin Bennett, some big executive. They live in Weston and have a kid in college. To look at her, you’d never guess my sister had a wild past. My poor mom died of cancer about a year after Mark’s death.”

“Is Ahmet still alive?” Phil asked.

“He’s even more respectable than Bernie. Ahmet is a big-time real estate dealer. Belongs to the chamber of commerce, serves on a bunch of charity boards. Makes me sick to see him grinning in the society pages.”

Gus seemed to run out of steam. A heavy silence fell over the room.

“Do you have any paperwork?” Phil asked. “Your brother’s death certificate, the police reports, his autopsy?”

“Mom and Bernie had those,” Gus said. “I couldn’t face Mark’s death for a long time. I couldn’t even think about it. I never believed he killed himself. I know I’m right. It’s only since little Gus came along that I knew I had to find out what really happened. I need you to find the facts.”

“This case is cold,” Phil said. “The records—if there are any—could be lost or missing.”

Gus pulled out a checkbook. “Your landlady said you were the best. Margery is one smart lady. Here’s two thousand dollars. There’s more where that came from.”

Gus signed a contract and the paperwork giving Coronado Investigations permission to act as his agent.

“We’ll need the names of your brother’s friends,” Phil said.

“I’ve already made a list and included Mark’s Social Security number, the hospital and the funeral home. Here’s an old video of Mark’s thirtieth birthday party at a Lauderdale bar called Granddaddy’s. You can see my sister, Mark, me, Mark’s friends and Ahmet. All the major characters.”

“Digging into family history is dangerous,” Phil said. “Are you sure you want this investigation?”

“I need to know,” Gus said.

On the drive back home, Helen was the first to break the silence. “Are you worried we won’t find Mark’s killer?”

“The job is impossible,” Phil said. “And if we succeed, Gus may be sorry. Remember Marcie, my first case?”

“The girl who died,” Helen said.

“Her parents wanted to know the truth. I had to tell them their baby had become a coke whore. I watched them die in front of me.”

“Maybe Mark’s story won’t end like that,” Helen said. “Let’s get the facts first.”

Helen and Phil watched the old VCR tape that night. Helen snuggled next to her husband on the black leather couch in Phil’s living room. She had Gus’s list of names on a clipboard.

The homemade tape started with a burst of sound and static. Then the video camera righted itself and panned the room.

The walls were painted dark blue and hung with glowing beer signs. Granddaddy’s Bar, Helen thought. A neighborhood bar with chrome stools and a long, polished lane of dark wood. The bottles on the lighted back bar were a skyline of liquor, a promise of good times. A neon palm tree proclaimed it was a Florida bar.

“We are definitely in the mid-eighties,” Helen said. “I see the styles I coveted as a teenager: headbands, frizzy hair, purple-red lipstick, blush like racing stripes. I wore blush like that, and my mother made me wash it off.”

“For once, I agree with your mother,” Phil said. “You don’t need makeup. Your skin is naturally beautiful.” He kissed her cheek, then her ear. His kisses traced the long line of her neck down to her open shirt collar.

“We should be working,” Helen said and sighed.

“We’re newlyweds.” Phil put the tape on pause. “I like making love to married women. This will help me forget my troubles.” He took her in his arms, and Helen’s clipboard slid to the floor.

A half hour later Helen and Phil went back to the tape of Mark’s birthday party. They were still captivated by the outrageous eighties fashions.

“Look at the brass earrings on that woman,” Phil said. “They’re like something in National Geographic.”

“How about the rhinestone chandeliers on the brunette?” Helen asked.

Most of the women were twentysomething. They showed off their lean bodies with crop tops, ripped jeans, leggings and tiny flared “ra-ra” skirts.

“What does that blonde have on her legs?” he asked. “They look like leg sweaters.”

“Those are leg warmers,” Helen said. “After Flashdance we all dressed like we’d just come from a dance studio. Check out the guys’ hair—more mullets than a fish shop. Half the men are wearing Members Only jackets.”

“I had one. I liked it,” Phil said with a touch of defiance.

“You were young,” she said. “You didn’t know better.”

The camera panned the glowing jukebox. Kool & The Gang sang “Celebration” at full volume. Phil turned the sound down a notch. Men waved beer bottles and danced with women drinking wine coolers or pale peach drinks.

“What’s in the highball glasses?” Helen asked.

“I think the women may be drinking Sex on the Beach,” Phil said.

“I snuck one at a graduation party,” Helen said. “Sex on the Beach was peach schnapps, vodka and some things I can’t remember. I never forgot the hangover, though. I spent the next morning worshiping the porcelain goddess.”

The music switched to “Every Breath You Take.” The Police promised “I’ll be watching you” when a woman with red-gold hair cruised past the beer-swilling mullets.

She was arresting, even in the grainy video. Her hair glowed like a bonfire. She had snow-maiden skin, a black leather jacket with shoulder pads, wicked leather pants and a bra the same fiery color as her hair.

Every man in the room swiveled to stare at her.

“Damn. Gus wasn’t kidding,” Phil said. “That has to be Bernie. She is breathtaking.”

“The guy with her isn’t bad, either,” Helen said. “I bet that’s Ahmet, the drug dealer. He looks like a young Omar Sharif. Lovely olive skin, eyes like twin pools of chocolate.”

“Corn as high as an elephant’s eye,” Phil teased.

“I’m just saying the man is eye candy,” Helen said. “No wonder Bernie fell for him. They make a striking couple. Both know how to dress. She looks like a rock star. He’s wearing Armani with a black T-shirt.”

“How do you know the designer when you can’t see the label?” Phil asked.

“Years of working retail,” Helen said.

A doll-like dark-haired woman walked carefully through a back door, carrying a birthday cake with candles. She held the cake out to keep the icing away from her sparkling cobalt blue top.

“Sequins and shoulder pads,” Helen said. “Wouldn’t be the eighties without them.”

The shoulder-padded woman set the cake down and lit the candles.

The camera panned to Bernie. She was wrapped around Ahmet, kissing him. The partygoers chanted, “Go! Go! Go!”

Someone turned down the music, and another mullethead yelled, “Hey, Danny, put that videocam on a stand and come here. We’ve gotta sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to old Mark. Where is the birthday boy and his brother? Mark? Gus? We need you.”

A broad-chested young man crowned with red-gold hair entered, his arm around a thin, fashionably frizzy-haired blonde. He had the dazed smile of a man in love.

“Is that Gus?” Helen couldn’t hide her shock.

“Hi!” The red-gold prince waved to the partygoers. “You all know my Jeannie. Mark will be in, soon as he parks his car.”

“You’re looking at Gus with fifty less pounds and a lot more hair,” Phil said.

“You don’t have to sound so happy.” Helen felt sad that Gus’s good looks were gone.

The cheers grew louder.

Helen and Phil stared at the man striding on-screen. “That has to be Mark,” Helen said. “He looks like a young god.”

The crowd parted for Mark. He towered over everyone. Helen couldn’t tear her eyes away. Mark’s face was sculpted perfection. The man was a Viking warrior in a pink Italian sport coat and artfully wrinkled white linen pants.

He should be holding a sword, Helen thought.

“Mark is wearing Ray-Ban sunglasses at night,” Phil said. “The man was a player.”

“That’s all you can say?” Helen asked. “He’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.”

“Hey!” Phil said.

“You don’t even notice Gus next to him,” Helen said, “and Gus was no slouch. It’s hard to believe someone as vibrant as Mark is dead. No wonder Gus still grieves for him.”

Someone handed Mark a frosted mug of beer. He shouted at the camera: “Hey, Danny Boy, get your ass over here, so I can blow out these candles.” Mark’s grin took the sting out of his command.

“You can’t talk to me like that in my own bar,” a reedy voice called back. Danny Boy’s speech was slightly slurred. A small rodent with slicked-down black hair appeared next to Mark. Danny Boy barely came to Mark’s shoulder, even in his red cowboy boots.

“I’d wear sunglasses, too, if I had to stand next to Danny Boy’s Hawaiian shirt,” Phil said.

Helen studied Gus’s list on her clipboard. “He’s the bar owner. Gus says he’s Mark’s best friend.”

Danny Boy swayed in his cowboy boots and poked a finger at Mark’s massive chest. “Hurry up and blow out your candles, before the fire inspector shuts me down. Damn. Thirty candles. You’re old, man.”

Danny led the crowd in an off-key version of “Happy Birthday.”

Mark, smiling, golden, glowing, blew out his candles and bowed. His friends shouted, “Speech! Speech!”

Mark held the beer mug aloft in a toast. “May you live forever, and may I never die.”

Then Mark blew out the candles on his last birthday cake. The screen went dark.